Dusty Memories - aka The Lives of James Bucky Barnes
by SweetInsanityWrites
Summary: Steve Rogers could not recall feeling any sort of emotion in the past years. He built a wall and tried not to feel. He decided to be empty, because what else was there, what was the point. Until he got that text. That damn text. "They're cleaning up the archives. Barnes' belongings where cleared. Pick them up at 0800 tomorrow. - F"


p class="western"span style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;"span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"span style="font-size: small;"span style="font-style: normal;"span style="font-weight: normal;"The sun was beginning to set and the workers were tired and slightly annoyed. Working for a secret government organization had sounded alot more badass on paper. Like fighting and sneaking and explosions, like a movie. Instead, the new recruits were digging through dusty old paper and boxes upon boxes of useless random stuff that had belonged to some dude or other, a lifetime ago. /span/span/span/span/span/span/span/p  
p class="western"br /br /p  
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 138%;" align="left"span style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;"span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"span style="font-size: small;"span style="font-style: normal;"span style="font-weight: normal;"Half of them were taking the notes, trying to decide what had to be kept as evidence or heirloom or whatever, and what to toss away. At first they had taken alot of care with it, cross-checking names and dates, looking for surviving family members who might want to take a look at old journals and shirts and jewelry of a long dead relative. /span/span/span/span/span/span/span/p  
p class="western"br /br /p  
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 138%;" align="left"span style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;"span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"span style="font-size: small;"span style="font-style: normal;"span style="font-weight: normal;"But as the day went on and on, they grew tired and careless. Whatever. This trash had spent decades in some dusty old shelf. Why would anyone need it now?/span/span/span/span/span/span/span/p  
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 138%;" align="left"span style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;"span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"span style="font-size: small;"span style="font-style: normal;"span style="font-weight: normal;"They didn't even know why SHIELD kept this in the first place. /span/span/span/span/span/span/span/p  
p class="western"br /br /p  
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 138%;" align="left"span style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;""/span/span/spanspan style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;"span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"span style="font-size: small;"span style="font-style: normal;"span style="font-weight: normal;"Well, that's another shelf done." Said a middle-aged woman with short hair and stern eyes. She frowned. She had wanted to save the world, yet here she was, cleaning. Like she hadn't spent her whole life doing exactly that. "Which one's next?" She sighed. Tired. Annoyed. /span/span/span/span/span/span/span/p  
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 138%;" align="left"span style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;"span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"span style="font-size: small;"span style="font-style: normal;"span style="font-weight: normal;"The elderly man doing the list pointed at a large metal locker that was kept shut with multiple heavy locks. "This one's ought to be interesting." He declared. /span/span/span/span/span/span/span/p  
p class="western"br /br /p  
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 138%;" align="left"span style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;""/span/span/spanspan style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;"span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"span style="font-size: small;"span style="font-style: normal;"span style="font-weight: normal;"What could possibly be more interesting than decade old kids drawings and rusty jewelry?" Commented a young man, who was leaning against a pile of "to keep" boxes, scowling. /span/span/span/span/span/span/span/p  
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 138%;" align="left"span style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;"span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"span style="font-size: small;"span style="font-style: normal;"span style="font-weight: normal;"The old man shook his head, pointing at his list. "That locker keeps the archived belongings of the Howling Commandos, my boy. These guys were legends." /span/span/span/span/span/span/span/p  
p class="western"br /br /p  
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 138%;" align="left"span style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;"span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"span style="font-size: small;"span style="font-style: normal;"span style="font-weight: normal;"A girl on the other side of the room jumped up. "Howling Commandos? I read about them in the museum." She jogged up to the locker. "Can we open it?" /span/span/span/span/span/span/span/p  
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 138%;" align="left"span style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;"span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"span style="font-size: small;"span style="font-style: normal;"span style="font-weight: normal;"She watched curiously as the old man opened lock after lock and carefully pulled open the heavy doors. More boxes. /span/span/span/span/span/span/span/p  
p class="western"br /br /p  
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 138%;" align="left"span style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;"span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"span style="font-size: small;"span style="font-style: normal;"span style="font-weight: normal;"The middle-aged woman groaned. The young man rolled his eyes. The girl leaned forward, carefully pulling out the first box. "James Morita?" She read. /span/span/span/span/span/span/span/p  
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 138%;" align="left"span style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;"span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"span style="font-size: small;"span style="font-style: normal;"span style="font-weight: normal;"The young man sighed and typed the name into his laptop. "Dude's got descendants in New York." He said. "Anything interesting?" /span/span/span/span/span/span/span/p  
p class="western"br /br /p  
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 138%;" align="left"span style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;"span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"span style="font-size: small;"span style="font-style: normal;"span style="font-weight: normal;"Carefully, the girl opened the box, searching through it's contents. A few pictures, notes, sketches, letters to he's written to his family but never sent. They put it on the "family" pile. /span/span/span/span/span/span/span/p  
p class="western"br /br /p  
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 138%;" align="left"span style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;"span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"span style="font-size: small;"span style="font-style: normal;"span style="font-weight: normal;"She took out the next box. "This name seems familiar." She said, furrowing her brows. "James Barnes." br / The old man let out a noise of surprise. "Captain Americas best friend. He was in the comics. And the museum." He moved forward, taking a look inside. /span/span/span/span/span/span/span/p  
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 138%;" align="left"span style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;""/span/span/spanspan style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;"span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"span style="font-size: small;"span style="font-style: normal;"span style="font-weight: normal;"Who cares. Got no living relatives, so it's all trash anyway." The young man commented. /span/span/span/span/span/span/span/p  
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 138%;" align="left"span style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;"span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"span style="font-size: small;"span style="font-style: normal;"span style="font-weight: normal;"The old man shook his head violently. "Don't you dare!" He took out a small leather book, skipping through the pages. "If anything, donate these to the museum. These are precise calculations Barnes did for his shooting. He was an excellent sniper, I read that in the comics." The man's face glowed with excitement. He took out a pile of carefully folded letters from his family, a few drawings from younger siblings, showing the Sergeant in various hero poses. An old watch, pictures, same as with the other soldiers. /span/span/span/span/span/span/span/p  
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 138%;" align="left"span style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;"span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"span style="font-size: small;"span style="font-style: normal;"span style="font-weight: normal;"He was about to shut the box, when something caught his eye. Carefully wrapped in brown packing paper, with "Hands Off!" scrawled on it, was a worn-down hardcover book. The old hands unwrapped it, carefully opening the the frayed cover, moving the brown, crumpled pages. /span/span/span/span/span/span/span/p  
p class="western"br /br /p  
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 138%;" align="left"span style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;""/span/span/spanspan style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;"span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"span style="font-size: small;"span style="font-style: normal;"span style="font-weight: normal;"This book belongs to:" Was printed on the first page. "BuCkY" Was clumsily written under it, with the messy handwriting of a child. br / /span/span/span/span/span/span/spanspan style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;"span style="font-weight: normal;""/span/span/span/spanspan style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;"span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"span style="font-size: small;"span style="font-style: normal;"span style="font-weight: normal;"James Buchanan Barnes" Was written below it in a tidier / /span/span/span/span/span/span/spanspan style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;"span style="font-weight: normal;""/span/span/span/spanspan style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;"span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"span style="font-size: small;"span style="font-style: normal;"span style="font-weight: normal;"Bucky Barnes" Said the third attempt/span/span/span/span/span/span/span/p  
p class="western"br /br /p  
p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 138%;" align="left"span style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;""/span/span/spanspan style="font-variant: normal;"span style="color: #000000;"span style="text-decoration: none;"span style="font-family: Arial, serif;"span style="font-size: small;"span style="font-style: normal;"span style="font-weight: normal;"You know what, kid…" The man said softly. "Tell Fury to call Captain Rogers. He'll wanna take a look at this."/span/span/span/span/span/span/span/p  
p class="western" style="line-height: 120%;"br /_/p  
p class="western" style="line-height: 120%;"span style="text-decoration: underline;"strongImportant info:/strong/span/p  
p class="western" style="line-height: 120%;" /p  
p class="western" style="line-height: 120%;"strongDue to 's restrictions in layout and file-format, I will not be able to to publish the whole story on here. /strong/p  
p class="western" style="line-height: 120%;"strongI would have to go back and manually change the layout of my story for each chapter to fit the format, and thats just way too time-consuming./strong/p  
p class="western" style="line-height: 120%;" /p  
p class="western" style="line-height: 120%;"strongThis story will be updated on AO3:/strong/p  
p class="western" style="line-height: 120%;"span style="text-decoration: underline;" /works/15142559/chapters/35114240/strong/span/p  
p class="western" style="line-height: 120%;" /p  
p class="western" style="line-height: 120%;"strongHope to see you there 3 /strong/p 


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